


Watch

by CN7



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Conspiracy, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Other, Psychic Abilities, Psychics, Psychics AU, but then get light and fluffy, it can get a little dark, it's a fun ride, superhero au, they have fun kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7165238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CN7/pseuds/CN7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I saw it coming too," Lexa grumbles. "Right before I waltzed through the door." Her arm flails in a poor attempt to gesture in the general direction of the entrance, but does not make it far.</p><p>"Stay still," the blonde breathes out, forcing Lexa's arm into place at her side. There is a panicked edge to her demand that Lexa wishes was not present.</p><p>"Should've . . . ducked I guess. Maybe . . . turned left," Lexa scoffs. "Oh well. The future . . . is unreliable. Changes too much."</p><p> </p><p>Lexa Woods has always been certain of two things. </p><p>One, she can see the future. Her clairvoyance may not always be accurate, but it is consistently insightful. For some reason, that makes her special even amongst her own kind.</p><p>Two, the world is a dangerous place. Particularly for specials, who seem desirable to anyone vying for power. So in retrospect she isn't particularly surprised that she was stabbed a week ago.</p><p>Except, her stab wound doesn't particularly have the marking of a blade, all of her memories surrounding her mugging are super fuzzy, her friends are acting weird, and she keeps having visions of a pretty blonde girl.</p><p> </p><p>AKA the Psychics AU no one asked for!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch

Lexa can no longer feel her fingers.  
  
Well, she can.  
  
Barely.  
  
The subtle tingling is irrelevant, almost obsolete, compared to the dull burn tearing through her chest.  
  
That's new, she notes. And stupid. So stupid.  
  
She must say so because a humorless laugh blesses her ears beyond the ringing.  
  
It is in that moment Lexa realizes the clutter of meaningless noise has ceased. Thunderous clacks no longer split the air. The shouts have become precise and purposeful. Above her. Revolving around her. They speak of her like she does not know.  
  
So somewhere in her mind, through the desperate fight or flight instinct which has grounded her in this surreal scene, Lexa finds the cognitive energy to realize the damage she has dealt to her own reputation.  
  
"I saw it coming too," Lexa grumbles, unabashedly frustrated--no, mortified--by these new circumstance.  
  
Suddenly the laugh has a face.  
  
A beautiful face with rosy cheeks and the deepest blue eyes, framed by cascading sunshine locks. Lexa is simultaneously compelled to kiss the little beauty mark above her unamused smile and throttle the person responsible for the dusting of black and blue splotches running the side of the blonde's forehead and around her eye socket.  
  
"Right before I waltzed through the door," Lexa continues. Her arm flails in a poor attempt to gesture in the general direction of the entrance, but does not make it far.  
  
"Stay still," the blonde breathes out, forcing Lexa's arm into place at her side. There is a panicked edge to her demand that Lexa wishes was not present.  
  
"Should've . . . ducked I guess. Maybe . . . turned left," Lexa berates herself half-heartedly. Then she scoffs. "Oh well. The future . . . is unreliable. Changes too much."  
  
"Is it changing now?" The soft dip of her voice is starkly contrasted by the sheer force with which she rips apart Lexa's shirt.  
  
Tendrils of moist warmth cascade down Lexa's sides, and the sensation is nearly as distracting and unpleasant as the way her body suddenly seems separated from time and space altogether. But she tries. She screws her eyes shut and focuses, but all Lexa finds is the beginning of her friends' impending argument before she is shoved violently back into the present with a white hot flash.  
  
"Clarke," a new voice order. "Let me take the bullet out."  
  
And so it begins.  
  
"No!" Clarke hisses, asserting her dominance. "We don't know where it is in relation to the entrance. You could cause more damage."  
  
Lexa conceeds this visionlessness, this blindness, is better than watching herself die like she had this morning. Far better than watching Clarke die.  
  
Lexa snaps her eyes open because she desperately does not want that memory to return. Everything in this space is far too bright. She needs to shield her eyes from the blurred edges on the horizon. But Clarke is there, hovering above her again with a halo of light surrounding her like a crown, and Lexa finds  
  
She has never looked more beautiful.  
  
"So you're just going to leave it inside of her?" the other voice rebukes. Shock, anger, and fear swath the woman's voice before its owner swims into view.  
  
"I have to!" Clarke cries. "I have to stop the bleeding! I'm sorry, Lexa."  
  
Clarke's bare fingertips press against the coated skin of Lexa's side. At any other time, her touch would have turned Lexa's bones to putty and set her heart aflame. Now though the comforting contact brings a whole new sort of burn as the very molecular fibers of her being stretch and tear and replicate at an inhuman rate. Her body aches like it has truly been set on fire.  
  
"Hey!" the woman shouts for Clarke to stop. The wheels are clearly turning in her head at rapid pace. If her furrowed brows are anything to judge by. Her almond eyes are hard and almost as determined as Clarke's.  
  
But Lexa already knows her friend's impending counterargument. It is one of the final predictions she can make before she is once again tossed effortlessly back into her body's world of pain.  
  
"I could home in on it and collapse the structure," the dishwater blonde decides, and Lexa thinks the world is beginning to sound a little too distant and hollow. "Hell, Raven could do it."  
  
"Raven, please," Clarke begs. "Please, trust me."  
  
A brief pause settles around them as Lexa continues to suppress uncomfortable squirms, though the pulse has briefly subsided. And somehow she knows Raven's silence is Clarke's victory.  
  
Even moreso when another pair of hands anchor her to the ground, and another round of pulses flare up.  
  
Every single muscle in Lexa's body contracts with a rigidity even she has never possessed. The cramping is exhausting as her body fights against and for the sensation in a simultaneous upheaval. She tries not to writhe in agony, to scream, and so she bites down full force on her bottom lip.  
  
She must draw blood because a metallic flavor bothers her taste buds.  
  
Or maybe not because the pretty blonde above her blanches, and Lexa is certain Clarke would not have such a physical reaction to just any casual injury.  
  
When what feels like electrocution dies down, Clarke's thumb drifts across Lexa's self-inflicted bruised lips, and her strong fingers guide the dark, matted bangs from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers so softly. "What's the weather looking like, Lex?"  
  
A new pain spearheads its way through Lexa's heart. She hates the way Clarke feels the need to apologize, and she wishes with every fiber of jer being she could offer up some comfort. Maybe the consolation would ease not only the clenching ache of guilt in her own chest, but that of the anxiety etched into the core of Clarke's every movement.  
  
Consolation is, afterall, the lie of pacifists.  
  
Lexa is many things, but she is not a liar.  
  
Not to Clarke.  
  
"You'll be fine, Clarke," Lexa chokes out earnestly.  
  
Not a lie for many paths she can not fully decipher.  
  
Clarke happy. Clarke healthy. Clarke alive.  
  
Fate and probability are funny things.  
  
"That's not what I asked!" Clarke snaps, her voice almost breaks from the weight she bears, from the energy she tries to collect so she can continue, and it practically kills Lexa inside.  
  
Prematurely, she notes.  
  
Lexa falters. The lights swim. Raven lingers somewhere around her ankles, Anya hovers at her waist with pursed lips and tension gathered around her high cheek bones, and Lexa does not have it in her to question why they are actually using their hands as they are often too lazy to do so. Clarke's eyes have never looked so blue, so red around the rims, exhausted, nor glassy.  
  
"There is no future to look for," Lexa answers honestly.  
  
Not right now.  
  
Because if a future exists, it exists in the girl holding her down trying to fix her.  
  
Lexa wants to tell Clarke just that but the opportunity does not strike. Instead, Clarke's fear snatches the chance, and lightning erupts through Lexa's side like nothing she has ever felt before.  
  
This time Lexa screams.  
  
"Raven!" Anya roars, "Your mother is a fucking scrub! I'm sure she taught you a thing or two about precision. I highly doubt you'll knick Lexa's fucking artery if you help me pull the damn thing out!"  
  
Raven yells right back because of course they would argue in the middle of the most inconvenient situation on the whole fucking planet. "My mother fucking taught Clarke! Clarke the fucking scrub! Let her heal Lexa so internal damage is all fixed up before we go back in and do something fucking fatal! I don't have the accuracy and neither do you!"  
  
Lexa screams and Clarke swallows the sound with a kiss. Never flinching away from her work where she pours her own life and energy into saving Lexa. Tears fall onto Lexa's nose, cascade down her cheeks, and salt hits her tongue.  
  
Clarke releases a watery sigh and breathes against her lips, "I'm so sorry, Lexa."

 

* * *

 

Lexa startles awake in a cold sweat. She gasps to fill her lungs, low on air as though she had been drowning in her nightmare. She disentangles her body from the suffocating perimeters of the sheets, stands on shaky legs, and stumbles her way into her adjoined bathroom to run water across her face. The palms of her hands are clammy as she brushes her hair back, and dabs them across her neck. But the water does not wash away the final remnants of her dream.  
  
It's gratifying and frustrating all at once.  
  
She sighs when her breathing is firmly under control once more, and stands back to stare at herself in the mirror. A pale imitation greets her. Sallow cheeks, drawn into a gaunt expression, dark circles rimmed around her eyes. The green of her irises have lost their vibrancy and diluted into a sickly gray just like they have been for the past week.  
  
Her long fingers grip the counter with a vice. Less to steady herself and more to angrily will away the ghost of illness in front of her.   
  
Lexa is not weak. She can prove her strength. Her resilience.  
  
So she lifts the jersey soiled not by avid wear and tear from her freshman year on the woman's soccer team, but by the sweat garnered in her sleep. Her tired eyes glare down at her chest for confirmation like she has everyday for nearly a week. Off center from her heart, between two ribs, an ugly oblong tattered scar stares right back. A gloss has begun to shine over the pinkish baby skin keeping her insides sealed together as though the wound itself had aged weeks or even months.  
  
But her insides ache with the same severity as any normal six day old stab wound would.  
  
Stab wound.  
  
Six days ago a mugger had gotten the jump on Lexa--chronically alert, suspicious Lexa. Her life was always at risk. Specials were always at risk. Particularly those disinterested in affiliation. It was a fact of life Lexa willingly accepted, but not always one she needed to take extra precautions with.  
  
So why did she get the sense she had been so disappointed in her vision? So careful? Had she taken those extra steps to stay safe? To keep others safe?  
  
Six days ago Lexa lacked precaution, had ignored the visions in her head, and injured herself in the process.  
  
A lot of good these topsy-turvey ultimatums did.  
  
Six days ago Nyko had pieced her diaphragm back together.  
  
And now the gift housed within Lexa's mind told her another scrub would be forced to stitch her up in what was likely the very near future. In the same exact spot.  
  
Well, that sucks.  
  
At least she yet lives.  
  
But what about next time? Would the bullet be the end of her? Who pulls the trigger? Why? Does she truly have so many enemies?  
  
Lexa dislikes the answer.  
  
Perhaps most baffling of all is why the only thing that will matter is reassuring the mystery scrub. Why do the blue eyes and gentle hands feel like the world held on a string? Who is she? How and when will they meet--if at all? How can the future be so dead-set on Lexa opening her heart if the universe intends to strip away the happiness of her beloved? No, Lexa cannot allow such pain. Not when the grief and anger is a feeling she has found herself familiar with.  
  
She knows the knock seconds before it comes.  
  
"What do you want, Anya?" Lexa tries not to growl in frustration.  
  
A pair of feet shuffle against the carpet on the opposite side of the door, but no fist raps against the wooden barrier as though the motion halted midair. "I need to pee," Anya dictates. "Would it kill you to actually let me announce my presence for once?"  
  
"Yes," Lexa answers, dabbing a cloth to her forehead. "Go use the other bathroom."  
  
"I won't make it to the other bathroom!" Anya shouts.  
  
The door settles, popping under the pressure of Anya's weight, and Lexa curses herself for ever agreeing to share the Jack and Jill with Anya. Especially since Lincoln rarely spends longer than fifteen minutes at a time inside his own across the hall. Maybe men just require less primp time? Regardless, the situation often leaves Lexa and Anya scuffling for dominance over the counter space with Lexa predicting her almost every move and Anya wedging a shield in between them and shoving Lexa back helplessly beyond the doorway.  
  
Neither are above cheating with the madness to their methods, but truly Lexa does not always mind losing. Lincoln is particularly tidy and leaves his domain far cleaner than Anya on most days. So she keeps a spare of almost every toiletry across the hall where there is no disarray, replaced by soft lighting and pine scented candles.  
  
"Lexa," Anya barks when there is no reply. "I will allow the dam to break right here on the floor, right now. I swear to god!"  
  
"You wouldn't!"  
  
"Would too!"  
  
Lexa unlocks Anya's door with no further delay and a reproachfully curled lip. Her mind gives no evidence for or against Anya's threat, but the potential of a broken door is less than ideal. She wants her security deposit back eventually, and if their landlord caught scent of broken property before costly reparations could be made out of their own pockets, that hope would slip right down the drain.  
  
When Anya zooms through the doorway and mounts herself atop the porcelain throne, Lexa reaches for her toothbrush and grunts, "Do we need to start kennel training again?"  
  
In the mirror, Anya's middle finger floats far from her face. "I drank like a gallon of water before bed and didn't get up in the middle of the night. So bite me."  
  
Lexa pops her toothbrush into her mouth and gives Anya an ok-sign.  
  
In place of their routine morning squabble a peaceful sort of silence washes over them. Lexa suspects the recent shift in atmosphere may be due largely to the former hole in her side. But after four mornings waking up to the same vision, with today as the most vivid yet, the inevitability of conflict is a strain on Lexa's focus and ability to ground herself in the present. Lexa is unsure whether she longs for the regular bickering or the silence to sort through her thoughts.  
  
After a moment, the plumbing goes into action and Anya shoulders her way up to the sink in her oversized Van Halen t-shirt. Even at Lexa's height, Anya claims several inches with a lean, sturdy figure which often looks prepared to spring out and pounce on unsuspecting prey. Anya's hard-edged dark eyes bore into Lexa's, and she cannot help the flicker of hope in a challenge for possession if the sink. Except the fight is never picked which, from a perspective of hygiene, is super gross.  
  
"You look like shit," Anya whispers, but no bite laces her words. In fact her face and voice are almost soft beneath the stony edges.  
  
Around a mouthful of toothpaste, Lexa whines when her roommate reaches for her toothbrush first. "Ew, Anya! Wash your hands."  
  
Anya rolls her eyes, but nonetheless follows Lexa's request.  
  
Lexa still feels unbalanced, queasy, and frankly a little perturbed, but she presses onwards and does not bother to hide a smug twitch of the lip. Over the years Lexa has learned to shove down the future to watch and interact with reality, but never to disregard her own predictions.  
  
Anya notices Lexa's distracted expression, but she waits to pursue her interrogation until they have both made their way out of the bathroom and are headed towards the kitchen. Lincoln is already perched at the bar. His daunting mass of muscles threaten to destroy the t-shirt glued around his torso. The back of his tattooed head tilts back to sip  on a cup of tea and bend forward to graze his way through a bowl of yogurt and granola. Most likely the last of what was available in the kitchen. His soft eyes light up when he catches sight of his best friends, and fingers twiddle in chipper greeting.  
  
"Really, Lexa, are you alright?" Anya tilts her head to the side and her stare into the very empty refrigerator grows intense. "Does your side hurt? We can probably go back to, uh, Nyko if it's still bothering you. Because even though all the internal wiring might be repaired, you did lose blood and-."  
  
"My side is fine," Lexa says. Really at this rate, she knows Anya is tired of trying to coddle her. Or at least, Lexa is pretty sure Anya is, because she's beginning to find the doting more creepy than endearing. She huffs and pours water into a mug to place in the microwave for her own tea.  
  
"What's the matter? Nyko don fis yu op, Leksa. Em na fis yu op nodotaim. _Nyko has fixed you up before, Lexa. He can fix you up again_ ," Lincoln offers sweetly, still unsure of the semantics surrounding their conversation.  
  
"I do not require Nyko's assistance." She aims for the remark to be as final as possible, emphasizing her last word by jutting her jaw forward and straightening her spine into a powerful line.  
  
Lincoln's voice dips a little too casually. "Bad dream?"  
  
Lexa rummages back through the pantry to pull out the honey for the mug she frees from the microwave.  
  
The air in the room is thick and pulsates under her silence. Her friends' caution, the intensity of their stares, does not escape Lexa's notice. They refuse to say so for her dignity--and likely Anya's--but Lexa is aware of the severity behind their concern.  
  
Afterall, she does not come home with a knife sticking out of her ribs on a daily basis. The only justifiable excuse for pestering her, right?  
  
Even still, the fuzzy, unreal edges of her memories regarding her mugging are not the thoughts which plague her mind. Not that she feels obligated to share every explicit detail.  
  
But Lincoln, and even Anya, seem intent to hover until they are certain. Strange and irritating.  
  
"It was just a dream," Lexa clarifies.  
  
Her best friends exchange uncertain glances, and for a moment Lexa almost thinks they intend to drop the subject altogether. They usually do not make a habit of pestering secrets out of her--or at least Lincoln abstains. Not if she clealry asserts her unwillingness. Even if Lexa has woken up in distress four mornings in a row. They wait for her to come to them.  
  
But not this morning.  
  
The peaceful mass of muscles simply hums.  
  
Anya persists, "You don't ever have just a dream." She pauses from pouring herself a bowl of cereal when Lexa makes no response, leaning back against the counter with folded arms. "What's the weather looking like, Lex?"  
  
The world jolts. Lexa reels in a sharp gasp on reflex and burns her tongue against the hot water steaming up from her mug. Her heart rate is alight with a spike of adrenaline because no matter how hard she wracks her brain she cannot for the life of her remember a time Anya has not shuddered with humiliation, or even revulsion, for the user of those words.  
  
_"Such a stupid joke."  
  
A giggle follows. Husky enough to melt Lexa down to her core and take away all her words. So she smiles warmly against the heat of the sun_.  
  
"What did you say?" Lexa mutters with a twist of her jaw.  
  
Anya piles into the chair next to Lincoln, who now positively withers. The flip in his mood is entirely out of left field, but bits of anxiety and exasperation fleck away from him like dandelion seeds scattering around the room, clouding up perspective.  
  
"What?" Anya growls, flitting her hair behind her shoulder defensively.  
  
Lexa's brow furrows and she nearly slams her mug down on the counter. A growl rumbles through her stomach, but the lack of meal options prevents her from appeasing her hunger situation. And she is suddenly just too irrationally riled to bother. "Why did you say that? Why did you ask me about the weather?"  
  
"Um, because you're a forecaster," Anya snorts with a heavy upwards swing in pitch. "It's a play on words." She takes a bite of her cereal, obnoxiously slurping up the milk from her spoon. "Lincoln, knock the bad juju shit off. You're making me want to punch you."  
  
"But you've never said that before," Lexa insists. She cannot put her finger on why, but something feels so misplaced, so very wrong. "You hate puns. You said so yourself. You think they're stupid . You-."  
  
She scowls into her the basin of their empty sink because she can feel the atmosphere of the room start to shift when Lincoln relents. Lexa wants to collect her thoughts on her visions, work through the frustrated confusion, to actively understand the suspicion overwhelming her. But a sweet, airy calm ebbs into the the tendrils of all her senses and she begins to unwittingly relax. Final shreds of rationale scream at her to believe the budding nonchalance and trust are artificial and incongruous with instincts.  
  
Anya lowers her spoon. "I what, Lexa?"  
  
"You said so. Or you will. I don't know. I saw you, but it looked - it looked more like . . . ," Lexa breathes, her resolve to hold her tongue swaying dangerously under Lincoln's influence.  
  
Lincoln's influence?  
  
Wicked siren!  
  
Anya and Lincoln hang onto Lexa's every word. Their bodies go rigid like wild animals alert to a hunter's presence, knuckles white, fingers splayed across the counter as they anticipate her next word.  
  
"More like?" Anya presses.  
  
And Lexa wants to tell them, desires to share and hear their reassurances she has not lost her mind. But she has not settled on a decision, and her two most valued confidants are too eager for her private knowledge, too on edge to be honest with either of them.  
  
Instead, she snaps, "Em pleni, Linkon! _Enough, Lincoln!_ I know what you're doing. Cease and desist your attempt to influence me."  
  
Sheepish color floods her friend's dark cheeks, and he breaks his gaze. The haze around Lexa's inhibitions immediately begins to uncloud. "I'm sorry, Lexa. I only want to help."  
  
"I know." Lexa reaches out and gently squeezes Lincoln's forearm.  
  
He swallows thickly. "You were in a lot of pain a few days ago."  
  
"Then trust I no longer am," she reassures with a quick smile.  
  
A flash of guilt slips across Lincoln's features. "We don't ever want to see you suffering so much again."  
  
Nausea bubbles in the pit of Lexa's stomach as she catches Anya stiffen from the corner of her eye. She needs to get out of here. She needs to flee the claustrophobic confines of this apartment where emotion and distraction clutter her gift of foresight. She must leave as soon as possible.  
  
Lexa collects her full height and nods her head in exit, freely abandoning her morning tea. She is already awake and it will do her no good anyways to try altering the rate of the visions she longs decipher. "I'm going to run through the park. Probably stop at the market on the way home since we'll have eaten our way into starvation by tomorrow if I don't. Call me if you need anything."  
  
When she wanders back to her room to pull on a pair of running shorts, she does not hear Lincoln hiss at Anya under his breath, "Why did you pressure her? What could you possibly have gained besides a very confused or angry Lexa? Do you want every GPS on our doorstep?"  
  
Lexa cannot see Anya shrug when she heads out the front door of their apartment. "Because I don't think Lexa is seeing anything new." Anya stands and stretches her arms above her head. "I don't think we can give them the two weeks they asked for."  
  
When Lexa steps into her building's elevator and pushes the button for the ground floor, she cannot see Lincoln bury his forehead in his large hands in regret. "Do I - do I need to find Luna?"  
  
And when Lexa wanders through the lobby into the thick warmth of a late June morning, unknowingly into the sight of watchful eyes, she does not see Anya's skin pale for the girl who has come to be much the same as a little sister. "Let's hope not."

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! :) 
> 
> I've got this sketched out pretty far. I'm going to try to update this on a weekly basis at least, so let's make Fridays the day. If I can, I may have an update out sooner. 
> 
> Be on the lookout for another Clexa fic coming out very soon!
> 
> Also be sure to come yell at me personalityplop.tumblr :)


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